Greek Island Escape

by Patricia Wilson

  I pulled myself up and headed for the public showers.

  *

  Later, refreshed, I continued along the edge of the sea, until I found myself back under the tamarisk tree on the beach. I would sleep on the sunbed again. Tomorrow, I would enjoy the carnival parade, and then on Monday, watch families flying their kites to mark the beginning of Lent.

  Then I would return to Athens.

  CHAPTER 46

  MEGAN

  Crete, present day.

  MEGAN DIDN’T WANT TO WAKE. She allowed herself to drift and doze under the crisp white sheet. She could hear the shower running, so Mum was up. What time was it? Then yesterday began to come back to her, and she sat up straight in bed. She was about to do something marvellous for her mother.

  ‘Ah, you’re awake. Did you have a good time last night?’

  Megan was almost too excited to reply. ‘Mum, we’re going to find her! You won’t believe what’s happened.’ She leaped out of bed and headed for the shower. ‘Are you ready to go, Mum? We have people to meet.’

  Her mother blinked at her in confusion. ‘What’s going on, Megan?’

  ‘Your story’s gone viral. We’ve got an appointment at ten o’clock. What time is it?’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘Great. Could you knock on Gary and Jeff’s room, number fourteen, and make sure they’re up? I’ll be ready in five minutes. We can grab some cinnamon rolls and eat them as we walk into town.’

  As she threw herself at the bathroom, Megan caught a glimpse of her mother’s astonished face and smiled.

  *

  Megan and her friends were meeting the Kreta FM radio producer in a harbourside café. They watched him approach their table. He was a short, chunky man with wavy shoulder-length hair, pale jeans and a flowing white linen shirt.

  ‘Mrs Johnson?’

  Her mother nodded.

  He shook hands with everyone. ‘We’re hoping to get this out on the one o’clock news, but it’s tight, so we’d better set off to the studio right now.’

  Twenty minutes later, they were working through a script with his assistant. At one o’clock, the broadcast went out. The afternoon was dedicated to a phone-in, interspersed by Sofia Bambaki’s hit records.

  The phones went wild. So many people knew the old woman who gave out slips of paper, looking for her daughter. Most of them had no idea it was the famous Sofia Bambaki.

  Megan was thrilled that she had managed to spark all of this. She held her mother’s hand as they listened to phone calls coming in, smiling all the while.

  ‘We’ll find her, Mum. Don’t you worry.’

  At an interval, when yet another Bambaki song played, the studio assistant popped in and turned to Megan’s mother.

  ‘You had a phone call. I hope you don’t mind, but I answered it for you.’ They’d had to leave their phones outside. ‘It was your husband,’ she continued. ‘He’s arrived at the airport with your son. He’s left the name of his hotel and asked if you would get in touch with them when you can.’

  ‘I’ll handle it, Mum.’

  Megan slipped outside to call her dad back. She came back into the studio a few moments later, smiling.

  Together they worked their way through the script, live on radio. The producer asked questions and translated Zoë and Megan’s answers. Then a call came in from a woman who claimed to have been imprisoned with Sofia Bambaki, who said she had delivered Sofia’s baby, Zoë Eleftheria.

  Megan had her new notebook out, scribbling notes as the programme developed, but looked up sharply at this. She could see tears in her mother’s eyes.

  When the producer played the next record, Megan leaned over and said, ‘My mother’s really tired. Could we stop now, and come back for the programme tomorrow afternoon?’

  The producer nodded. ‘One more ten-minute session, to wind it up, and we’ll continue tomorrow?’

  Megan nodded, and glanced over at her mother. She was still on the phone to the woman who had been imprisoned with Sofia, who knew a smattering of English.

  Suddenly, her mother’s hand flew over her mouth.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she gasped. Then, into the phone she said, ‘We’ve got to meet – where are you?’ She listened and then said, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pay your fare, just come to Chania as soon as you can.’

  The producer played another record, then put the call on speaker.

  He translated the caller’s words.

  ‘Your father was a martyr. They tortured him for years, then they put him before the firing squad, minutes after he married your mother.’

  Mum sobbed, much to the producer’s delight, but found she couldn’t speak. Megan spoke instead.

  ‘I’m Sofia Bambaki’s granddaughter. Please, come to Chania and help us find Sofia Bambaki. Where are you?’

  The woman was in the capital of Crete, Heraklion, less than three hours’ drive away. The programme ran for another ten minutes, then the producer took a call and came back, agitated.

  The story had been taken up by Greek national television.

  CHAPTER 47

  SOFIA

  Crete, present day.

  I WOKE ON THE SUNBED. My old joints protested, as usual, when I struggled upright. Today was carnival day, but my pleasure at the thought of this colourful occasion left me. Perhaps I wouldn’t go into the main street; all that jostling for a glimpse of the floats was tiresome. Life was more peaceful on the beach.

  As I had no intention of returning to Crete in the future, there was no need for my usual frugality. I could celebrate the holiday with a proper breakfast. After climbing the steps to the promenade, I leaned against a tree and emptied the sand from my shoes. The fisherman’s wife was sweeping outside the taverna. I went over and sat at a table, shoulders back, long neck, smiling. Posture told a lot about a person; Mama had always said so.

  Maria, the fisherman’s wife, watched, hesitated and then came over.

  ‘Good morning. What can I get you, Yiayá?’

  I pointed at cappuccino on the menu. I’d always wondered what a cappuccino was; the name sounded exotic and romantic.

  Maria raised her eyebrows and smiled, then disappeared into the kitchen.

  The radio was playing one of my old songs from the time when Spyridon managed me, so many years ago.

  Maria returned and placed the cup of creamy froth before me. I patted my chest twice and grinned.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Maria said.

  Another of my old records came on the radio. I pointed at the speaker, then at my chest and nodded.

  ‘It’s Sofia Bambaki,’ Maria said. ‘She’s a legend. I love her old songs. There seems to be some kind of revival – they were playing all day yesterday.’

  I pointed at the speaker, and at my chest again.

  ‘Yes, so you’re a fan too. She was popular in your time, I guess.’

  Exasperated, I scrambled in my bag, pulled out my ID card and handed it to Maria. She looked at it and smiled.

  ‘Ah, you have the same name – how sweet!’

  My frustration escalated. I got to my feet, swept up a ketchup bottle, held it like a microphone and mimed the song. Then pointed at my chest again.

  Maria stared. ‘You’re not telling me that you are the singer, Sofia Bambaki?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Virgin Mary!’ Maria crossed herself and went running into the back shouting, ‘Ioanis! Ioanis!’

  I sipped my cappuccino. If I could, I would have laughed. When the record finished, I tried to catch what the announcer was saying, but these days, my hearing isn’t what it was.

  *

  Ioanis seemed dishevelled when he came rushing out of the taverna. A couple of tourists sat at a table and picked up the menu.

  ‘Go and serve them and turn the radio up!’ he yelled at his wife. Then he came to my table.

  For a moment I forgot to sit up and slumped in my seat. I was still tired. Perhaps I needed another hour on the sunbed before I went for my morning walk.<
br />
  ‘You are Sofia Bambaki, the singer?’ Ioanis asked.

  I looked up and nodded, pleased that somebody cared.

  ‘Listen!’ he yelled, pointing at the radio speaker.

  I turned my attention to the broadcast.

  ‘That’s all we have time for on This Morning Live, my friends. Join us again at four this afternoon for the latest update in our search for Sofia Bambaki. Our lines are open now. If you have any information, call us on 2100 59368.’ Ioanis reached for his phone. The broadcaster continued. ‘Now, a last word from Sofia Bambaki’s daughter, Zoë.’

  Zoë? My mouth fell open in a silent gasp.

  ‘Listen,’ Ioanis said.

  ‘The irony is, I’ve met my mother twice in the past week without realising it. Once on the ferry from Athens, and once at the harbour in Chania.’ The broadcaster translated, then the woman continued, reading in Greek: ‘Θα σε βρω. Σ’αγαπώ μαμά – I will find you. I love you, Mama.’

  The world was spinning; my heart sang, and tears sprang to my eyes. I remembered the moment I passed my little baby girl to Markos and saw his tears fall. He held his daughter with such tenderness. I thought of Anna’s complete joy and dedication, and my own never-ending sense of loss. My hope, and the fruitless search that had gone on for over forty years. Could it really be drawing to a close?

  Although almost half a century had passed, the day of Zoë’s birth returned with such clarity that I wanted to cry out. I found myself gripping Ioanis’s shirtsleeve instead.

  Markos, I’ve found her!

  I always knew you would.

  *

  Ioanis was back on his phone outside, pacing the pavement and gesticulating wildly with one hand. Eventually, he returned to the taverna and I saw him have a hurried conversation with his wife. A few minutes later, his son and daughter were in the building, and new tablecloths were being whipped out of their cellophane and spread on the tables. Maria disappeared for half an hour and returned in her best church clothes. Ioanis dragged out a ladder and cleaned the sign hanging over the pavement, dust falling into the dregs of my cappuccino.

  Zoë . . .

  Soon the taverna was heaving. Word had spread. As new customers arrived, they came up to me and beamed, old fans with their adoring looks that brought back the thrill of the old days. I slipped my hand into my pocket and clutched the nugget of sea glass.

  Changed, but still unique, still a thing of beauty.

  Some people brought old records and asked me to sign them. Ioanis grinned and placed a tuna sandwich and a proper coffee before me.

  ‘For my very good friend, Sofia Bambaki,’ he said loudly. Then he turned to the crowd. ‘Sofia Bambaki always eats fish at my taverna. It is the best in Crete.’

  Shaken, yet thrilled, I waited for the moment I would hold my daughter. It seemed incredible that they were coming, but Maria reassured me.

  ‘Your daughter’s on her way, Sofia.’

  I had almost finished the sandwich when I noticed a crowd approaching from the pedestrian promenade. My old heart raced. Was Zoë with them?

  I don’t know if I can take all this, Markos.

  You’ll be fine. Your public love you, and so do I.

  As the people drew closer, I saw cameras on shoulders, fur-covered microphones on long poles, young, bouncy people clearly excited and loving their job.

  Zoë Eleftheria, was all I could think. Was she among the strangers?

  *

  A BMW with tinted windows came down the seafront walkway, which normally only allowed for delivery vans. The vehicle disappeared around the back of the taverna.

  Shortly afterwards, a suited man appeared and introduced himself to me as a reporter for Greek national television. He turned his attention to Ioanis and Maria and interviewed them with their backs facing the sea. I peered along the promenade, searching for the taxi that would bring my child.

  The TV presenter spoke into the camera, before turning his attention back to me. I was amused for a moment, thinking it must be a reporter’s worst nightmare to interview somebody who couldn’t speak. I had to give him credit – he handled it well, telling some of my story while I nodded and smiled or looked sad in the appropriate places.

  ‘So, Sofia Bambaki, famous singer and darling of the troops, you have searched for your daughter, Zoë Eleftheria, for forty-five years?’

  I nodded, my heart exploding with emotion.

  ‘Then turn around,’ he said.

  Oh, Markos, Markos!

  I gasped, stumbled to my feet, turned and reached for my daughter.

  Zoë rushed into my open arms. We clung to each other, sobbing, rejoicing, triumphant at last.

  She was Markos’s daughter as sure as the day, his smile shining from her face. Beside her was a teenage girl – the girl from the taverna with Markos’s eyes – and a boy a few years younger. My daughter, and my grandchildren. They, too, rushed towards me. Everyone seemed to be applauding, crying, cheering.

  As I felt the arms of my family around me, I imagined Markos’s arms encompassing me too. We all wept unashamedly. The taverna music was turned up.

  Angels, wings give you flight,

  Every star-spangled night.

  My love, you are life’s sweetest songs.

  And I felt Mama was also with us.

  Gradually, we calmed down. Zoë, my darling daughter, sat beside me and held my hand. Megan and Josh – who were introduced to me as my grandchildren – sat next to Zoë. The presenter joined us.

  ‘Sofia Bambaki, we have another surprise for you.’

  Just as I was wondering if I could take any more surprises, three old women appeared, grinning at everyone. Thina, Honey and Agapi. I would have known them anywhere.

  ‘We’ve brought you a present, Sofia,’ Thina said, once we’d all hugged and kissed. ‘It’s a digital notebook that speaks the words you type in.’

  I held my friends’ hands as we all tried to blink away our tears, but failed.

  The TV crew left, but my friends and family remained, gathered around the table. My heart was overflowing with joy. While the others were all chatting away, I closed my eyes for a moment.

  My quest is over, Markos.

  I’m glad. I’ve missed you.

  EPILOGUE

  ZOË

  Crete, present day.

  ZOË CLOSED THE LID OF her suitcase. The months had flown by, and now she was on her way to Crete once again. The day after finding her birth mother, she and Frank had patched things up. They had talked everything over: Megan’s disappearance, their own stresses with work, how hard they had pushed each other away – and how much they still loved each other. They both wanted to give their marriage another try, take a step back from their jobs and dedicate time to fixing their relationship.

  She remembered Frank’s suggestion.

  ‘Why don’t we show the kids we’re serious about restoring our family values?’ he’d said. ‘Let’s renew our vows.’

  Zoë thought for a minute, then agreed.

  ‘Good idea – you’re so romantic, darling. And to show we have every faith in them, we could ask Megan and Josh to organise the occasion.’

  So now Zoë and Megan were about to leave for Crete. Frank would follow the next day with Josh, Trisha and Don. The ceremony would take place the day after that.

  ‘All ready, Mum? Taxi will be here in ten.’ Megan made another tick on her list. ‘That’s everything sorted until we get to Greece. Granny Sofia and her friends seem very organised. I just got a text to say Gary and Jeff are there and will meet us at the airport.’

  ‘You’ve done a remarkable job, Megan,’ Zoë said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s been great, and I’ve learned so much. I’ve been talking to Gary and Jeff – they’ve been such a help.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Mama today? How’s the book coming along?’

  ‘Sure, she’s fine. I’ve sent an outline of her memoir to the publishers and they seem very enthusiastic. Being
able to talk to Granny Sofia every day has been great. She keeps remembering the most bizarre things, and considering all she’s been through, what a sense of humour she has. Sometimes I’m in fits! Honestly, the things she tells me – you couldn’t make it up. She just loves her tablet. Her friends are a hoot, too. It’s brilliant the way they take it in turns to stay with her, and translate our conversations. I mean, my Greek’s coming on, but it’s still not great. I make the most embarrassing mistakes.’ She stopped and smiled at Zoë. ‘You know what, Mum – even though Granny Anna never knew the truth of your birth, I think she’d be thrilled to know her good friend and your nanny, Nurse Sofia, now lives in her cottage in Kissamos. It’s cool – sort of completes the circle, don’t you think?’

  Zoë squeezed Megan’s shoulder. ‘You’ve matured so much over the last few months. I’m really proud of you.’

  Megan covered her mother’s hand with her own.

  ‘It’s me that’s proud of you, Mum. I know how hard it’s been for you and Dad. We’ve done our best with all this, me and Josh, so I hope you both have a really fab week.’

  They both heard the sound of the horn.

  ‘Here’s the taxi. Come on, Mum, time to go.’

  *

  At Chania airport, Gary and Jeff were all suntans and smiles. They whisked Zoë and Megan to their hotel in Kissamos, dropped the cases, then went on to the cottage. Mama Sofia was sitting on the front bench, waiting. Tears were shed and hugs dispensed, then Zoë and her mother found themselves alone. Sitting side by side, they drank strong Greek coffee and ate crumbly shortbreads covered in icing sugar.

  Zoë glanced at the sky and, almost speaking to herself, said, ‘I wonder if Granny Anna can see us? If so, then I hope she knows how much we all loved her.’

  She did not expect Sofia to understand, yet her mother also glanced at the sky, smiled and nodded. Sofia crossed herself and pulled the little tablet out of her skirt pocket. Once she had tapped a few keys and pressed the ‘speak’ button, the woman’s voice, adopted by Sofia, spoke her words.